


this is romance

by wearing_tearing



Series: Sterek Prompt Fills [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - FBI, Canonical Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Human Derek Hale, Hurt Derek, M/M, Protective Stiles, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearing_tearing/pseuds/wearing_tearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“These two men share a last name not because they’re brothers, Special Agent Stilinski,” Deaton says, giving him a pointed look. “They’re a <em>married</em> couple. That’s why you need the wedding rings. They’re a married couple you and Special Agent Hale are going to impersonate.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is romance

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from [tumblr](http://dylansneck.tumblr.com/post/103996838449/could-you-repeat-that-sterek-please). prompted by [jerktomybitch](http://jerktomybitch.tumblr.com/): sterek + "could you repeat that?"
> 
> **i do not give permission for any of my works to be added to or shared on other websites such as goodreads.**

“You want us to _what_?”

Derek has to close his eyes and count to ten in his head not to snap back at the _kid_ sitting beside him.

“Could you repeat that, sir?” Derek asks, letting out a deep breath.

“As I’ve previously told you, Special Agent Hale,” Assistant Director Deaton says calmly. “Both you and Special Agent Stilinski have been chosen for this assignment given how you two roughly match the description of Martin and Thomas Porter.”

“Yes, we know that,” Stilinski waves a hand at him. “What I don’t know is why we need _this_.”

Derek doesn’t even have to look at Stilinski to know what he’s pointing at. All he has to do is glance down at his own hand, eyes catching on the white gold wedding band sitting on his open palm.

“These two men share a last name not because they’re brothers, Special Agent Stilinski,” Deaton says, giving him a pointed look. “They’re a _married_ couple. That’s why you need the wedding rings. They’re a married couple you and Special Agent Hale are going to impersonate.”

*

“This isn’t what I signed up for when I decided to work for the FBI.”

“At least you didn’t have to change how you look,” Derek winces, scratching at his chest.

One of his least favorite parts about working undercover is the changes he has to make on his appearance. Usually it means getting a haircut and letting his facial hair grow, hiding the tattoo on his back, bulking up and getting bigger and broader and stronger.

Not for this assignment, though.

This time he had to _wax_ , from his chest down to the line of hair leading to his crotch, because apparently Martin Porter is _not_ a fan of body hair on himself. And now he’s all _itchy_.

“Sorry about that,” Stiles says, pressing his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m gonna have to stop shaving, though. _That’s_ going to be fun.”

“Are you sure you can even grow facial hair?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Haha,” Stiles says flatly. He closed the folder he’s holding over his lap, throwing it on the table in front of him before turning in his chair to face Derek. “So, how do you usually do this?”

“Undercover work?” Derek blinks. “I thought you’d know how to do that.”

“I meant _this_ ,” Stiles says, waving a hand between them. “I can’t say I have any experience pretending to be married to someone.”

“And you think _I_ do?”

Stiles shrugs. “You’re hot. It’s not a stretch to think the Bureau would use that to their advantage.”

“I’m not the agency’s _hooker_ ,” Derek snaps, offended.

And also trying to ignore the way his stomach flips at knowing Stilinski thinks he’s _hot_.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says softly. “That wasn’t what I meant. I didn’t mean to imply— I don’t think you’re—”

Derek sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “This is new to me, too. The most I had to do before was get close to someone to gather information. Pretending to be in a loving and committed relationship with someone is not something I ever had to do.”

“Loving and committed relationship?” Stiles asks, batting his lashes. “Is that what we have, boo?”

Derek snorts, unable to stop himself. “I had to sit still for I don’t know how long while someone fake tattooed Thomas’s name on my ribs. I think that’s exactly what we have.”

Stiles’s opens and closes his mouth, eyes going impossibly wide. “They gave you a _tattoo_?”

“Yes,” Derek says, lips turning down.

That’s another thing that’s unpleasant about his transformation. Especially considering how he’s going to have to ask Stiles to help him retouch the design every few days, for as long as they stay on the mission.

“Can I see?” Stiles asks, eyes glinting with excitement.

Derek’s mouth thins, but he still gets up and pulls his shirt up to his chest. The tattoo is on his left side, Thomas’s name written in big and colorful twirly letters.

He hates it.

And judging by the way Stiles is scrunching up his nose, he’s not a big fan of it either.

“That’s…,” Stiles starts, seeming at a loss for words.

“Flashy?” Derek offers. “Tacky? _Ugly_.”

“Understatement.”

“Thanks,” Derek deadpans.

“I’m sure Thomas appreciated it when Martin got it,” Stiles says, fighting back a smile.

“Of course,” Derek rolls his eyes. “That just means you’re going to have to work hard on pretending you love it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, eyes meeting Derek’s. There’s something there Derek can’t quite read, but he knows Stiles isn’t joking when he says, “At least I don’t think I’ll have a hard time pretending to love you.”

*

“Could you at least try to look like you’re _enjoying this_?” Stiles hisses, digging his nails into Derek’s arm. “We’re supposed to be on a romantic vacation, having _fun_. You look like you’re dying.”

Derek grimaces, curling his fingers around Stiles’s wrist and pulling his hand away. “I don’t like cruises.”

“You— _What_?” Stiles asks, baffled.

“We’re on a ship, surrounded by water,” Derek says, swallowing hard. “With no place to run to in case something goes wrong, away from help.”

“We have a team for back up four rooms away from ours,” Stiles points out. “And we’re both highly trained FBI agents. We’re not _helpless_.”

“I _know_ , I just—,” Derek says quietly. “I don’t like it.”

Stiles stares at him for a few seconds, considering. “You know how to swim, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know how to swim,” Derek snaps. “Doesn’t mean I like having to do it to save my _life_. There’s no where to hide when you’re in the ocean.”

Derek doesn’t like the way Stiles is looking him.

He knows he’s going to have to try harder if they want to succeed on making everyone believe they’re the Porters, but being surrounded by water unsettles him.

“Hey,” Stiles says, curling a hand into the front of Derek’s shirt and tugging. “I’ve got your back, okay? And if you ever need to just get away and hide in our room for a while, pretending we’re on land, that’s okay, too. Everyone will probably think we’re off having sex, anyway.”

Derek’s mouth dries as his head fills with images of him and Stiles together, and his voice is weak and he says, “Right.”

“You still might want to look happier about being here with me, though,” Stiles reminds him. “Martin did plan his trip because he wanted some alone time with the love of his life, after all.”

“And also to trade stolen art with his business partners,” Derek adds, smiling a little.

“Well, there’s also that.”

Derek stares at Stiles, taking in the flush on his cheeks for being outside in the sun, his now carefully styled hair — he can still remember Stiles complaining about all the hair products he has to use as Thomas —, the growing stubble on his chin and jaw, his big brown eyes glinting with amusement.

Derek takes one step closer, raising an eyebrow when Stiles tilts his head in confusion, one of his arms coming around Stiles’s waist. He doesn’t let himself hesitate before cupping Stiles’s cheek with one hand and leaning in to kiss him, swallowing the little surprised sound Stiles makes when their lips touch.

Stiles tastes like sunscreen and sweat and the fruity cocktail he was drinking earlier, and Derek can’t get enough of him.

He knew going in that having to pretend to be with Stiles wouldn’t exactly be a difficult thing to do. He’d noticed Stiles around the agency before and he had to admit he’d liked what he saw. The attraction was there from the beginning, at least on his part, and playing the part of a husband who couldn’t take his hands off of his significant other wouldn’t be hard.

Mostly because that’s how Derek felt.

And it seems that Stiles feels the same way, if judging by the way he wraps his arms around Dereks neck and curls his fingers through Derek’s hair, nails scratching at his scalp. Either that, or he’s really good at playing it up. But Derek doesn’t think that’s the case.

They kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss, lips and tongues moving against each other’s, until Derek hears someone clearing their throat beside them.

Derek knows he’s scowling when he breaks the kiss and turns his head to the side, but he can’t help the way his cheeks flush when he sees who interrupted them.

“You’re blocking the way to the pool,” Erica says, grinning from ear to ear.

She’s part of their back up team, and Derek knows that what she just saw is going to be used as a way to tease them both later.

“Oh my god,” Stiles mumbles, dropping his head on Derek’s shoulder.

Derek shuffles them to the side, hands gripping Stiles’s hips. “There.”

Erica bites back a laugh, and leans in closer to them to whisper, “Just wait until I tell the rest of the team about how you two are making out while on the job.”

And, right. Their _jobs_.

*

“We’re going to have to do more of that, you know,” Stiles tells him that night, voice muffled as he towels off his hair. “We’re supposed to want to be all over each other, after all.”

“That’s not going to be a problem,” Derek says quietly, but still loud enough for Stiles to hear.

“Oh,” Stiles says, turning to him. His eyes are wide, cheeks a little red. “Really?”

Derek squirms a little, pretending to mess with his pillows so he doesn’t have to look up at Stiles.

“Yeah, really.”

“Because it’s your job?” Stiles asks. “Or because you…”

Stiles doesn’t finish his sentence, but they both know what he was going to say.

“Because of both,” Derek answers.

“Oh.”

“You’re not as horrible as you think you are,” Derek jokes, smiling a little.

“Jeez,” Stiles rolls his eyes, throwing the towel on the floor before he makes his way to bed. “That’s what every guy wants to hear; that they’re not that _horrible_.”

“You’re welcome,” Derek says flatly.

“Oh, shut up,” Stiles mumbles, hitting Derek in the stomach with his hand.

Derek grabs hold of his wrist, glancing up at Stiles before slowly pulling him closer. Stiles goes, staring up at him with a small smile on his face while Derek moves them around until they’re both on their sides, Derek with his back to Stiles’s chest, Stiles’s hand resting just above his heart.

Stiles nuzzles closer, lips ghosting over the back of Derek’s when he says, right before he falls asleep, “You’re not that horrible, too.”

*

“I see our target.”

Derek forces himself to relax at the feel of Stiles’s lips against his cheek, and wraps his arms around Stiles’s shoulder, hand splayed over his chest. They’re sitting in one of the pool chairs, Stiles between Derek’s legs, his fingers playing with the hem of Derek’s swim trunks.

Derek follows Stiles’s line of sight and spots a guy at the edge of the pool, a camera in his hands.

“I see him,” Derek replies, brushing his lips against Stiles’s shoulder.

“Want me to make myself scarce to see if he’ll approach?” Stiles asks, bringing a hand up to Derek’s face, thumb tracing over his stubble.

“Don’t go too far.”

“Just to get us some drinks,” Stiles promises, then smirks and says, “Now give me a kiss.”

Derek nips at Stiles’s shoulder before lifting his head up and slotting their lips together, making sure their kiss is open and wet and completely inappropriate for the situation they’re in. He’s rewarded by the dazed look on Stiles’s face when he pulls back, his lips still parted as if he’s waiting for Derek to kiss him again.

Derek doesn’t, just brushes their noses together and says, “Go.”

Stiles huffs and does.

Three minutes later, Matt Daehler sits on the vacant chair by Derek’s right.

*

That’s how it goes, for the next two weeks.

Derek and Stiles putting up a front of being happy and married and _in love_ , while at the same time trying to bring Matt down.

They kiss and touch each other when they’re in public, making sure to never be that far away from the other. They give smiles and blush whenever someone comments on how _perfect_ for each other they are, telling the story of how Martin and Thomas met and fell in love, making everyone believe they are who they say they are.

And at night, when it’s just the two of them they share a bed, cuddle, wrap themselves tight around each other. As if, somehow, that will make what they do during the light of day mean something more than it actually does.

*

“Do I really have to wear this?” Derek asks, holding the tight black shirt and even _tighter_ dark blue jeans Stiles’s threw at him away from his body.

“You’re supposed to meet Matt at the club tonight to do business,” Stiles says, and points at the shirt. “ _Those_ are clubbing clothes. So yes, you really have to wear them.”

“I don’t think I can run in these pants,” Derek comments, holding them in front of his legs.

“Hopefully you won’t have to,” Stiles says, rummaging through his own bags to figure out what to wear. “ _I_ will be the one to arrest him, and Erica, Boyd, and Scott will be there to help us. All you have to do is make sure we catch him with the stolen painting.”

“Piece of cake,” Derek mumbles.

“Exactly,” Stiles nods. “Now go change or we’re going to be late.”

Derek sighs, grabbing his clothes and going to the bathroom.

The clothes cling to him a lot more than he thinks they should, the fabric of his shirt stretching across his chest and shoulders. He doesn’t even want to talk about his pants. They leave _nothing_ to the imagination south of his belt buckle. He wonders if Erica did this on purpose when she went through Martin and Thomas’s bags and packed for them before the mission started.

His only consolation is the look on Stiles’s face when he steps out of the bathroom and into the room. He has to fight back a smile when Stiles’s mouth drop open, eyes going round, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“So, what do you think?” Derek asks, making sure to cross his arms over his chest.

He’s surprised when the shirt doesn’t rip.

“I think Erica is a genius,” Stiles breathes out, biting on his bottom lip.

And yeah, as he watches Stiles’s eyes darken, Derek can’t help but agree.

*

Derek is glad Stiles is so good at his job.

Really, he is.

Because that means when Matt Daehler realizes just who Derek is and what’s going to happen to him, he pulls a gun. And Derek, because he’s wearing those stupid tight jeans Stiles picked for him, isn’t able to move as fast as he’d like to before Matt pulls the trigger.

*

Derek wakes up to a white ceiling and beeping, to needles in his arms, to a sharp pain on his stomach.

He blinks, trying to clear his head, trying to make the blurry shape now in front of him come into focus.

“Oh, thank fuck.”

Derek frowns, because he knows that voice.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and Derek feels him squeeze his hands. “How are you doing?”

“Drugged,” Derek slurs, lips turning down.

“Well, yeah,” Stiles huffs. “That’s what happens when you need to have surgery because you _got shot_.”

“Don’t like it,” Derek mumbles, blinking. “You look all wonky.”

“Wow, thanks,” Stiles says dryly.

“You’re too pretty to be wonky,” Derek explains, trying to raise a hand. “Wanna look at you. I like your face.”

Stiles laughs, wet and surprised. “I like your face, too. Why don’t you rest, huh? You can look at my face some more after you wake up.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Stiles says.

And Derek feels a press of lips against his forehead before he slips under.

*

The only thing Derek hates more than hospitals is _hovering_.

Which is precisely what Stiles has been doing since Derek was discharged.

“Deaton asked me personally to make sure you were okay,” Stiles tells him every time Derek complains, his eyes narrowed and mouth tight. “So suck it up.”

And Derek wonders why Deaton did do that, if he knows something about Derek and Stiles they don’t. Not that Derek wants to know. Really. He’d rather live in blissful ignorance, where it means he and Stiles get to keep on like they were while on assignment.

“And don’t lie,” Stiles says, sitting down by Derek’s side on the couch. “You love having me here.”

Derek grunts, because it’s true.

But still.

The _hovering_.

“I can still do things by myself,” Derek grumbles. “I got shot, that’s it. That doesn’t mean I suddenly forgot how to feed myself.”

Stiles stops halfway into tearing a piece of the banana cupcake he’s holding. Derek knows what would come next; Stiles bringing the piece up to Derek’s mouth, Derek’s lips wrapping around his fingers as Derek accepted the food.

And sure, that doesn’t sound all that bad.

Derek just wished he could have Stiles fingers in his mouth because of _different_ reasons.

“Well,” Stiles drawls. “I supposed I could let you do that.”

“Thanks,” Derek says dryly, taking the cupcake from Stiles’s hand.

“I see you didn’t complain about me helping you shower, though,” Stiles points out, grinning when Derek blushes.

“You know it hurts when I lift my arms up to wash my hair,” Derek says, taking a bite of his cupcake so he doesn’t have to say anything else.

“Sure, sure,” Stiles teases. “It’s because of _that_ and not because you love my hands all over you.”

Derek rolls his eyes, ignoring the way his cheeks turn even redder.

He doesn’t hesitate to lean in and place a quick kiss to Stiles’s mouth, though.

And it gets even better when Stiles cups his face and keeps him right there, tongue tracing Derek’s bottom lip, deepening the kiss.

And when Stiles pulls back it’s to look up at Derek, eyes shining and lips red and swollen.

Derek almost closes the distance between them to kiss him again.

Stiles clears his throat. “So.”

“So.”

They’re still in each other’s space, heads so close their noses are almost touching.

“Are we really going to do this?”

Derek startles, fingers tightening on Stiles’s hips.

“Are you serious?” Derek asks. “I thought we didn’t need to have this conversation anymore.”

“We never had it in the first place,” Stiles points out. “Things just kind of…”

“Happened,” Derek finished. “And you want them to keep happening?”

“If you’re up for it,” Stiles says, squeezing the back of Derek’s neck.

“Oh, I’m up for it,” Derek mutters, and is pleased when that makes Stiles’s laugh.

“That was horrible,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “And I’m not going to do anything until the doctor clears you.”

“You’re suggesting we actually get involved,” Derek says. “My bad jokes are the least of our problems.”

“We’re already involved,” Stiles tells him, all humor gone. “But I know how much of a stickler to the rules you are. So if you want us to stop this, just tell me. We can say we just got caught up in work, that it didn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t want to say no,” Derek admits, because it meant _something_. “But you know our bosses aren’t exactly fond of interoffice romances.”

“Oh, so this is a romance?” Stiles teases, smiling a little. “Tell me more.”

“Shut up,” Derek huffs, cheeks flushing.

“I didn’t react very well when Matt—,” Stiles stops, hand falling from Derek’s face to rest right above his stomach. “It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out how important you are to me after seeing me like that.”

Derek knows what Stiles had to do after Matt opened fire. The times Stiles isn’t with him at his apartment are because he’s talking to one of the Bureau’s psychologists.

“You think Deaton knows?” Derek asks quietly.

“I know Erica, Boyd, and Scott know,” Stiles tells him. “They were there. Isaac probably knows, either because Scott or Erica told him. Same with Allison. And Lydia is… Lydia. If she didn’t know, I’d be worried.”

Derek nods slowly, resting his forehead against Stiles’s.

“So you want to do this?”

“I want to _keep_ doing this,” Stiles says firmly. “Not because we’re pretending, but because we want to. But only if you’re in.”

“I’m in,” Derek says, without having to think about it. He has been since Deaton called them to his office and presented them with two identical white gold wedding rings. “I’m in.”

“Good,” Stiles says, and kisses him.

*

They’re not pretending here, they never were.

Because here, in _their_ room, there are no other people around, no one they have to put up a show for. There’s no one here they need to remind they’re married, that they are Martin and Thomas instead of Derek and Stiles.

It’s been two years since this all started, since _they_ started.

So there’s no excuse for the way Derek pulls Stiles to him as soon as the door closes behind them, his arms around Stiles’s waist, his hands under Stiles’s shirt.

No excuse for the way his lips finds Stiles’s, for licking his way into Stiles’s mouth, for kissing him and tasting him and leaving him breathless.

No excuse for Derek pushing Stiles onto the bed, for undressing themselves, for rutting against each other until they’re sweaty and panting and coming all over their stomachs.

No excuse for Derek holding Stiles closer at night, for them wrapping themselves around each other, for the promises they whispers during the night.

But Derek guesses they never needed excuses, anyway.

Not for this.

Not for _them_.

Not for love.


End file.
